Emotional Sensibilities
by Handful of Silence
Summary: John gets irritated when Anderson and the other Yarders call Sherlock names. Sherlock is pleasantly surprised that the doctor gets so angered on his behalf. S/J established.


_AN/ Originally a flashback section of another oneshot I'm working on, but has since become too long and so deserves space of its own. This was going to end a bit differently with an epilogue involving Anderson and John Watson's fist, but I might save that for another time :-)_

_Summary: John gets irritated when Anderson and the other Yarders call Sherlock names. Sherlock is pleasantly surprised that the doctor gets so angered on his behalf. S/J established._

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><p><strong>Emotional Sensibilities<br>**_**or Things that make John Watson want to punch Anderson**_

"How can you stand it?"

John asks the question suddenly, grinding his teeth as is his habit when irate as they walk away from the crime scene. A dead body right outside a smoothie shop on Curzon Street that John imagines will either frighten away customers or draw in curious people with questions who'll end up being convinced to part with extortionate amounts of money for what is effectively ice cream mixed with fruit.

With Sherlock having effectively just done the Yard's job – as per usual; really John shares in Sherlock's irritation when the man solves the puzzle so easy, wishing they'd vet what they ask the consulting detective if only to save them the taxi fare and allow John extra hours in bed – after deducing not only who the murderer is but the motives and even where the police will find the perpetrator, the intent is to return for the night to their Baker Street rooms.

John has laid claim to buying the dinner for this evening; taking a quick detour to South Audely street to buy a takeaway from the Chinese restaurant (it isn't technically a takeaway, it's a Michelin star place which means there is generally a three month waiting list for tables, but the owners know Sherlock from a case involving money laundering and a false visa, so they'll be all too happy to provide them with food to take home, even if John insists he'll pay for the trouble when they order the usual chow mien, egg fried rice and beef and black bean sauce.).

It is of course, ridiculously unhealthy food , especially when the only other thing the detective has had today was the last of a croissant that John bought from the nearby Tesco and a coffee from the Costa further down Baker Street, but at least Sherlock is eating something, even if it is soaked in additives. John is determined to get the detective's eating patterns into some semblance of normality. It's not so much that Sherlock doesn't like eating; it's merely that it's of such minor importance compared to the other things he has to think about that he dismisses it, leaving John to be the one who reminds him.

Sherlock glances at him quizzically, hands pushed into his coat pockets nonchalantly as they walk along Park Lane, pulling deftly on one length of his navy scarf to tighten it around his neck. "How can I stand what?"

"_That_" John hisses like Sherlock should know already (and usually he does), balling his fists up, stretching the skin over the muscles white. His jaw is tight-set, hard set and twitching slightly under the skin like he's biting down and crushing his molars together, and he appears as though he's going to start gesticulating with his hands, another thing he does when something has upset him, throwing his palms up in exasperation and trying to illustrate what has bothered him with waves and motions like he's communicating in sign language. Sherlock is expected to understand said sign-language.

It is a rather irrational bequest on John's part; he is not, despite what many seem to believe, telepathic, but his partner expects him to be able to decipher the different levels of pissed-off that he portrays dependant on what has riled him. There's the one reserved solely for inanimate objects; like when John loses the chip-and-PIN battle at Sainsbury's or when he stubs his toe on the coffee table and invents his own creative curses that make no logical sense but make him feel better, or the heights of irritation aimed solely at a certain consulting detective; like when he finds human phalanges in the sugar bowl, or the time when what John thought was semi-skimmed milk was really the contents of a recently deceased person's stomach. Sherlock had tried to explain the reasoning for hiding the liquid in an otherwise innocuous plastic bottle ("For science, John!"), and luckily John noticed the difference quickly enough so as not to drink any, which would have had the dual effects of disposing of the evidence he needed to solve a case and making a very sick and cranky ex-army doctor. John was cranky over the matter anyway it turned out, but Sherlock passed it off as long hours at the surgery getting to him.

This level of Pissed-Off-John however, has moved past Shouting-at-Daytime-Chat-Shows and Body-Parts-in-the-Fridge levels, more up at the Mycroft-Visiting/Harry's-Been-Sending-Drunken-Texts-Again end of the spectrum. Sherlock prides himself on being able to recognise this like apparently a good partner is meant to be able to do, notice when John is upset, even though he is able to read the give away details for everyone he meets. Like he knows that Lestrade bites his nails as stress relief when he thinks no-one is looking, and Mr Hudson fiddles with the small grey cross around her neck when she walks into the war zone of the rooms they rent and sights another one of Sherlock's experiments (maybe it hadn't been a _good_ idea to hang the evidence of a shrunken head from the main room light, especially when it fell down into the poor woman's lap, but it had been of the utmost importance for scientific advancement. John hadn't seemed to think so, and Sherlock was still slightly rankled that the man had made him take it down and move it elsewhere. He put it in the fridge instead as a petty revenge, in-between the Hellman's Low Fat Mayo and the Activia yoghurts).

John lets out another huff, like of course, _of course_ Sherlock wouldn't know what the problem was, and his demeanour simmers back down from his boiling irritation, letting out a harsh breath, calming himself down momentarily so he can explain it to the man who is supposed to be a detective.

"Those lot back there." he says, waving a wild hand in the direction of the crime scene they just left. The flashing lights are still visible, cutting through the night time, even though it never really gets dark in London, not with all the night-life and street lights. Sherlock thinks that the dark is boring, that sleeping is a waste of time, so maybe that's why he's so fond of London, because it shares the same view.

John makes an angered noise in his throat, perhaps knowing that Sherlock's attention is not fully upon the matter at hand and continues, elaborating "How can not be bothered when people like... like Anderson and Donovan are...are openly insulting you to your face. I mean..." he rubs a hand over the choppy hair at the back of his neck. Sherlock knows to be paying attention to what he's saying; an increased number of pauses usually indicates that John is getting himself more worked up about something than usual. "...they call you names... Freak and Psycho and you never...never seem to be _bothered_"

Sherlock gives his own version of a shrug, a minute twitch of the shoulders to indicate that he doesn't really give much consideration to the petty ministrations of the officers of Scotland Yard. People are people, he has found, and in his experience, they are for the most part are childish and ignorant when faced with something they don't understand. He can't comprehend why John seems to hold out for something better than what evolution has allowed. "Maybe they are correct in their assumptions"

"No" John replies brusquely, his response almost immediate. He is using his Army Voice, as Sherlock has labelled it, never a good sign. There is a warning not to argue with him in his tone. Sherlock is quietly surprised to hear the seriousness of his words, a determined flinty look in his eye, the kind of glimpse of steel that only John can pull off. "No they aren't. And don't you dare think otherwise"

Sherlock gives a flick of his lips in a fond half-smile.

"Sometimes I think you have too high an opinion of me, John"

"And sometimes I think yours is too low when you just let them say things to you like that" John snaps, oddly adamant tonight, and Sherlock turns to study the man properly this time, noting he has stopped on the pavement, shoulders held straight under woollen covering like he's standing in an inspection line, and he might be the shorter of the two of them at 5'7 ( Sherlock has seen people underestimate him because of that, and they always end up regretting it) but the detective has long understood that when he wants to be the doctor can be physically imposing, due not only to his stocky build but also because of that ghost of an unspecific emotion in the back of his eyes, the burning ice of blue corneas, the one that speaks of war. The one that John uses on Sherlock when they are at loggerheads, not often, but when Sherlock is being particularly obtuse and John particularly unable to deal with it quietly, the one that growls you will listen to me, because I am right.

Sherlock is reminded of the same flash of dark light present at the pool, that night with Jim Moriarty that in memory plays out with painful detail; shadows chasing over themselves at the edges of the doorways, the cinematic reveal of the spider at the centre of all the strings and the shock of a concrete loyalty he had never expected when John had his arms wrapped around the consulting criminal's neck.

"_Sherlock, run!"_

"_Isn't he sweet? I see why you like having him around, then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets. It's so touchingly loyal"_

The memory makes Sherlock shiver even now. The laughter in Moriarty's eyes and the reckless bravery – so very stupid, so very human and so, _so _very _John – _aimed at the man who had strapped a Semtex bomb to him, collateral in a game that had started with Carl Powers all those years ago; a normal ex-army veteran who knew very well what Moriarty was capable of but who held tightly all the same around the man's neck with a glint in his eyes that said you don't scare me, you don't frighten me because I have seen death and it is so much more than whatever you can throw at me.

It is one of those things Sherlock will never understand about John Watson, glimpsed at the pool and in smaller doses in practically every one of their cases; his depth of loyalty, how much he seems to actually care about Sherlock and his emotional well-being, even though Sherlock is pretty sure that he has done very little to deserve it. It is a nice feeling, he has found, someone actually _caring. _Not Mycroft's brand of caring, which is to assume that the elder brother knows best and to bribe him into trying to do things, while keeping surveillance on him by bugging his flat. John does it subtly, makes him sandwiches and cups of tea and tucks a blanket over him when Sherlock's fallen asleep on the sofa again in motions that are completely and utterly natural.

John cares, and it's something Sherlock is suprised by.

And it is most likely due to this affection for the detective that John gets himself so riled up by the insults Sherlock has just taken as part of dealing with normal, painfully dull and predictable people.

The detective wouldn't be a very good one if he hadn't already noted by the small tell-tale signs that the habits of Donovan and other Scotland Yard personnel when it came to the name-calling of Sherlock bother John, and always have ever since they took that first case at Lauriston Gardens – the one that John titled 'A Study in Pink' on his blog in his usual over-sentimental prose; still, he would be quite lost without his blogger.

Over time and repeated observation of the man, he's marked carefully in how John's jaw tenses, his eyes – the odd colour that Sherlock can never quite categorise to a specific shade; the pupil blue ringed around the outside, becoming more hazel and brown flecked near the centre – get darker, loses their lustre for a second, his whole body pausing, freezing solid in a battle-ready posture for just that fraction of a second before it has faded away again.

"It seems to be of more concern to you than to me" he replies to the doctor, not meaning it unkindly, just pointing out the facts of the matter, and John frowns angrily at his words, as though they've offended him in some manner.

"For God's sake Sherlock, of course it concerns me! That's..." he gives an exasperated sound almost like a curse, irritated that he is unable to correctly articulate himself for a moment, having to stop to collect his thoughts. He scrubs a hand over the short cut of his hair. "that's... that's a part of what being... being in love with an... insufferable pain-in-the-arse consulting detective does to you. It makes you want to... to protect them from harm because sometimes they just throw themselves into it without ever thinking through the danger with that great massive sodding intellect that they've got, makes you...want to make sure that nobody hurts them and if they do makes you want to do something a-bloody-bout it. _That's_ why it bothers me, me and my stupid human reactions, and one day Sherlock, that means I might possibly break Anderson's nose over this"

Sherlock has stopped also, pauses to lean against a lamp-post, not saying anything at first, watching John breathe hard and finish a tirade that evidently has been building up for a while. The street is quiet apart from the usual city background noise of cars and shouting, the hour late, and the halo of light bleeding onto the pavement from the street lamp illuminates a faint smile that would otherwise go unnoticed in the black. It's not mocking, far from it; it's affectionate, his head tilting softly to the side with an expression on a face usually so calculating and emotionless that nobody but a few people have ever been privy to.

"I did not realise that I inspired such a depth of feeling"

John blushes faintly, the tips of his ears dappled with a rose shade mixed with the yellow of the street lamp. He shrugs, unsure of how else to respond. "Someone has got to look out for you"

And Sherlock can't tell scientifically exactly why the self-conscious modest reaction John gives automatically makes him look more attractive, standing on a street corner in one of his woolly oatmeal jumpers over a t-shirt, seemingly so human with an honest response with no artifice attached, hands shoved awkwardly into trouser pockets while he scuffs his trainers on the pavement, but it does. _John said he was in love with you. _He replays the conversation back with pitch perfect clarity ("_That's what being in love with an insufferable, pain-in-the-arse consulting detective does to you")_, and finds himself smiling as he always does whenever John mentions the L-word.

Because however it might get bandied about in a fervour of superficial artifice, the sort of exclamation people use about their favourite TV show (like how John _loves _trash competitive television like Come Dine With Me, or how he _loves _fish and chips with a coronary-inducing amount of salt but no vinegar), it is not the same sort of love when John directs the affection at the detective. It _matters, _means something deep and honest and _special_ when John says it, in that understated manner of his as though Sherlock should never doubt it; saying it like he's never meant anything so seriously.

"And may I say you are doing an admirable job" Sherlock responds finally, grinning at John with a humour that takes the doctor off guard.

The detective pulls away from his post and walks up closer to the other man, leans down in a spontaneous motion of need and presses a kiss to John's lips. They are chapped from the cold wind, but there is an addictive pliant softness beneath that, John moving softly into the kiss with his usual clumsy gracefulness, something which for Sherlock defies explanation.

It does not last long, and is relatively chaste due to their surroundings and an unspoken desire to finish this in the safety of their own quarters, but the doctor's blush increases, and he has that half-beaming, half-flustered look he gets whenever Sherlock does something romantically unexpected, pleased, glowing with an internal smile, but at the same time not sure why the detective did it, not sure what sparked it off. Sherlock wants to roll his eyes at the doctor's endearing ignorance.

"I am glad," Sherlock murmurs "That you will be there should I need you"

"Most of the time then." John teases, then coughs gruffly, realising he's fallen into the trap of becoming overly sentimental. He glances around in case anyone is watching, then comes to an obvious decision that he couldn't care less. "Just warning you" He smiles crookedly, perfectly "In case you wonder why Anderson might come into work one day with a plaster over the bridge of his nose. I'll buy him a packet of dinosaur-themed ones, I know he likes those."

Sherlock chuckles with a low hum, and John laughs along, louder and more obvious and to Sherlock, it is one of the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard – like a violin concerto in an empty room performed only for him, a low G played with vibrato, skimming the bridge to gain a depth and emotional meaning that Sherlock could not hope to ever replicate on his own instrument. And when John stops, but continues to shine with an internal smile, Sherlock still imagines he can hear the echo of that laugh.

"C'mon" John says, linking his arm with Sherlock's, and Sherlock senses that burst of pride he always gets in the pit of his chest when John doesn't mind showing off to anyone that Sherlock is his, because also has the effect of letting people know that John is irrevocably _his. _"Let's go get that Chinese"

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><p><em>AN To those who got the reference, it was too much of a temptation not to mention Anderson in relation to dinosaurs. =] _


End file.
